Resurrection Men

26

There was a tapping at Siobhan’s window. It took her a moment to work out where she was: the St. Leonard’s car park. She must have driven there from Leith; couldn’t remember anything about it. How long had she been sitting? It could have been half a minute or half an hour. More tapping. She got out of the car.

“What’s up, Derek?”

“Shouldn’t that be my question? You’re sitting there like you’ve seen a ghost.”

“Not a ghost, no.”

“What then? Has something happened?”

She shook her head, as if trying to clear it of the memory of that office . . . Gray and McCullough . . .

Rebus had warned her, and she’d gone blundering in anyway with her sweeping accusations and half-formed questions. It was hardly what they taught you at Tulliallan. Even so, the reactions of McCullough and Gray had been startling: McCullough’s sudden anger, Gray’s snarling defense of his colleague. She’d expected a response, yes, but nothing quite so feral. It was as if the two men had been unraveling in front of her eyes.

“I’m fine,” she told Linford. “Just in a dream, that’s all.”

“Sure?”

“Look, Derek . . . ” Her voice had hardened. She rubbed at a throbbing spot on her right temple.

“Siobhan . . . I am trying to mend the fence between us.”

“I know you are, Derek. But this isn’t the time, okay?”

“Okay.” He held up both hands in surrender. “But you know I’m there for you if you need me.” She managed to nod her head. He shrugged, prefacing a change of subject. “Friday night tonight. Shame you’ve got that date. I was going to suggest dinner at the Wichery . . .”

“Another time maybe.” She couldn’t believe she was saying this. I don’t want to make any more enemies . . . Linford was smiling.

“I’ll hold you to that.”

She nodded again. “I have to go to the office now . . .”

Linford checked his watch. “I’m out of here. Might be back before the close of play. Otherwise, have a great weekend.” He seemed to think of something. “Maybe we could do something together.”

“I need a bit more notice than that, Derek.” The throbbing was getting worse. Why wouldn’t he just go? She turned and walked towards the station’s rear door. He’d be standing there . . . watching her . . . waiting for her to turn so he could try out another sympathetic smile.

No chance.

Upstairs in the murder room, things were winding down. The team had been given the weekend off en masse. The Procurator Fiscal’s office was happy enough with the case as it stood. They’d have more questions, more information they needed come Monday morning. But for now, everyone was relaxing. There was still paperwork to contend with, still loose ends to be gathered together and tied as tight as possible.

It could all wait till Monday.

Siobhan sat at her desk, staring at the cover sheet of the Dundee fax. When she looked up, Hynds was moving in her direction. She could see by the look on his face that he was going to ask if anything was wrong. She held up a finger, warning him off. He stopped, shrugged and turned away. She started reading the text of the fax one more time, willing something — anything — to jump out at her. She supposed she could try talking to Ellen Dempsey, see if she’d let anything slip.

So what? she wondered. What difference did it make if McCullough did connect to Ellen Dempsey? It certainly seemed to make a difference to him. She knew almost nothing about McCullough and didn’t have any contacts in Dundee who could enlighten her. Then she turned back to the cover sheet.

To: DS Clarke, Lothian and Borders

From: DS Hetherington, Tayside

Hetherington . . . a detective sergeant, just like her. Siobhan’s request hadn’t been addressed to any particular officer. She’d just got the fax number for Tayside Police HQ and sent it there. The cover sheet was on letterhead, the telephone number just discernible. Then she noticed something typed below Hetherington’s name: x242. Had to be an extension number. Siobhan picked up her phone and punched the digits.

“Police HQ, DC Watkins,” the male voice said.

“It’s DS Clarke here, St. Leonard’s in Edinburgh. Any chance I could have a word with DS Hetherington?”

“She’s not in the office right now.” She . . . A smile cracked open Siobhan’s face. “Can I take a message?”

“Is she likely to be back?”

“Hang on a sec . . .” There was the sound of the receiver being laid down on a desktop. DS Hetherington was a woman. It gave them something in common, might make it easier for the pair of them to talk . . . The receiver was picked up again. “Her stuff’s still here.” Meaning she’d be back to pick it up.

“Could I leave you a couple of numbers to pass on to her? I’d really like to talk to her before the weekend.”

“Shouldn’t be a problem. We have to prize her out of the office usually.”

Better and better, thought Siobhan, giving Watkins her St. Leonard’s and mobile numbers. Afterwards, she stared at the telephone, willing it to ring. The room around her was emptying: early doors, as Rebus would have called it. She hoped he was all right. She didn’t know why she hadn’t called him . . . Actually, she had a vague memory of doing just that. Probably as soon as she’d got back to her car. But he hadn’t been answering. She tried him again now. He picked up.

“I’m fine,” he told her without preamble. “I’ll talk to you later.” End of conversation.

She visualized Hetherington returning to her desk . . . maybe not noticing the message. Watkins hadn’t sounded the type who had to be prized from anything but a barstool. What if he’d already made his escape before her return? What if she saw the message but was too tired to do anything about it? Maybe she’d had a long week . . . To Siobhan, it had lasted an eternity. She wasn’t going to do anything this weekend but lie in bed and read, doze, then read some more. Maybe drag the duvet as far as the sofa and watch a black-and-white film. There were CDs she hadn’t got round to playing: Hobotalk, Goldfrapp . . . She’d decided to give the football a miss. It was an away game at Motherwell.

The phone remained silent. Siobhan counted to ten, giving it a chance, then gathered her stuff and headed for the door.

She got in her car and put some driving music on: the latest REM. It was fifty-three minutes long, which meant it would see her most of the way to Dundee.

She hadn’t allowed for the Friday-afternoon exodus from the city, ending with a long queue to pay the toll at the Forth Road Bridge. After that, she put her foot down. Her mobile was attached to its charger. Still no word from Hetherington. She picked it up every few minutes, just in case some new text message had escaped her attention. The farther north she traveled, the better she felt. It wouldn’t matter if there was nobody at the office when she arrived. It was good to be out of Edinburgh. It reminded her that there was another world out there. She didn’t know Dundee professionally but had visited the city plenty of times as a football fan. The two Dundee teams had stadiums practically next door to one another. There were a few pubs in the center where Siobhan had enjoyed a drink before kickoff, her Hibs scarf hidden deep down in her shoulder bag. There was a sign off the motorway to the Tay Bridge, but she’d made that mistake once before. It led to a long, winding trail through the villages of Fife. She stuck to the M90, bypassing Perth and heading into Dundee from the west. This approach turned into a seemingly endless series of roundabouts. She was steering the car around one of these when her phone sounded.

“I got your message,” the female voice said.

“Thanks for calling back. As it happens, I’m on the outskirts of town.”

“Christ, it must be serious.”

“Maybe I just fancied a Friday night in Dundee.”

“In which case, delete ‘serious’ and add ‘desperate.’ ”

Siobhan knew she was going to like DS Hetherington. “My name’s Siobhan, by the way,” she said.

“Mine’s Liz.”

“Are you just about ready to shut up shop, Liz? Only, I know the pubs in this city better than I do your HQ.”

Hetherington laughed. “I suppose I could be persuaded.”

“Great.” Siobhan named a pub, and Hetherington said she knew it.

“Ten minutes?”

“Ten minutes,” Hetherington agreed.

“How will we know one another?”

“I don’t think that’ll be a problem, Siobhan. Single women in that place tend to be an endangered species.”

She was right.

Siobhan only knew the place from Saturday afternoons, drinking in safety, a pack of Hibs fans around her. But as people clocked off, the weekend stretching ahead of them, the pub took on a very different character. There were office parties, loud laughter. The only people drinking alone were sour-faced men at the bar. Couples were meeting up after work, bringing their day’s gossip with them. Supermarket shopping bags held the evening meal. There was thumping dance music, and a TV sports channel playing silently. The interior was spacious, but Siobhan was having trouble finding somewhere to stand, somewhere she’d be conspicuous to anyone coming in. There were two doors into the place, which didn’t help. Every time she thought she’d found a spot, drinkers would gather nearby, camouflaging her. And Hetherington was late. Siobhan’s glass was empty. She went to the bar for a refill.

“Lime and soda?” the barman remembered. She nodded, quietly impressed. She turned to watch the door and saw that it had opened. A woman was standing there. Something Liz Hetherington had forgotten to mention: she had to be six feet tall or thereabouts. Unlike a lot of tall women, she made no attempt to make herself seem shorter, holding her back straight and wearing shoes with heels. Siobhan waved, and Hetherington joined her.

“Liz?” Siobhan said. Hetherington nodded. “What’re you having?”

“Just a dry ginger . . .” She paused. “No, the hell with it. It’s Friday, right?”

“Right.”

“So make it a Bloody Mary.”

There were no tables left, but they found a ledge by the far wall and placed their drinks there. Siobhan realized that she didn’t want to stand next to Hetherington for too long: she might get a crick in her neck. She fetched two stools from the bar and they sat down.

“Cheers,” she said.

“Cheers.”

Liz Hetherington was in her mid-thirties. Thick shoulder-length black hair, which she kept trimmed without spending a fortune on new styles. Her slender frame thickened considerably at the hips, but her height helped her carry it. No rings on her left hand.

“How long have you been a DS?” Siobhan asked.

Hetherington puffed out her cheeks. “Three years . . . Three and a half actually. You?”

“Nearer three weeks.”

“Congratulations. How’s Lothian and Borders?”

“Much the same as up here, I’d expect. I’ve got a female DCS.”

Hetherington raised an eyebrow. “Good for you.”

“She’s okay,” Siobhan said thoughtfully. “I mean, she’s not the kind to give favors . . .”

“They never are,” Hetherington stated. “Too much to prove.”

Siobhan nodded agreement. Hetherington was savoring a mouthful of her drink.

“Ages since I had one of these,” she explained, swirling the ice in her glass. “So what brings you to the city of the three Js?”

Siobhan smiled. The three Js: jute, jam and journalism, of which, as far as she knew, only the third still provided much in the way of local jobs. “I wanted to thank you for sending me that stuff I asked for.”

“A phone call would have sufficed.”

Siobhan nodded. “There was a name mentioned . . . one of your colleagues. I may have to ask him a few questions.”

“And?”

Siobhan shrugged. “And I was just wondering what he was like. His name’s James McCullough. He’s a DI. Maybe you know someone who can give me a bit of background?”

Hetherington studied Siobhan over her glass. Siobhan wasn’t sure she was falling for the line she’d just spun. Maybe it wouldn’t matter.

“You want to know about Jazz McCullough?”

Meaning Hetherington knew him. “I just want to know how he’ll react if I ask him some questions. Forewarned is forearmed and all that . . .”

“And knowledge is power?” She watched Siobhan shrug again, then gestured towards her drink. “You need a refill.”

Siobhan knew Hetherington was giving herself time. “Lime and soda,” she said.

“Want a gin or anything in that?”

“I’m driving.” Siobhan stared down at her near-empty glass. “Go on then,” she said.

Hetherington smiled and headed for the bar.

When she came back, she’d made her decision. She’d also bought two packets of dry-roasted peanuts.

“Sustenance,” she said, placing them on the ledge. Then, as she sat down again: “The hunters are out.”

Siobhan nodded. She’d seen them: men’s eyes assessing her. Men from the office parties, but also men at the bar. They did, after all, appear to be two women at the start of a night out, making them possible prey . . .

“Good luck to them,” Siobhan said.

“Here’s to professional women,” Hetherington said, chinking glasses. Then she paused. “You don’t realize how lucky you are.”

“Oh?”

“I mean, maybe it isn’t luck. Could be it’s instinct or kismet or something.” She paused to sip her drink. “There are plenty of people in CID who know Jazz McCullough, and some of them might even be willing to talk to you. But not many would say very much.”

“He has a lot of friends?”

“He’s made a lot of friends. Plenty of favors he’s done for people down the years.”

“But you’re not one of them?”

“I’ve worked with him a couple of times in the past. He acted like I was invisible, which, as you can imagine, is quite a feat.”

Siobhan could well imagine it: she reckoned Hetherington was probably a good half-inch taller than McCullough, maybe more.

“He didn’t like you?”

Hetherington shook her head. “I don’t think it went that far. He just didn’t think I was necessary.”

“Because you’re a woman?”

Hetherington shrugged. “Maybe.” She lifted her glass again. “So don’t expect him to welcome you with open arms.”

“I won’t.” Siobhan thought back to the scene in Leith and had to suppress a shiver. The alcohol seemed to surge through her. She lifted a handful of nuts to her mouth.

“What is it you need to ask him anyway?”

“The notes you sent me . . .”

“I forget the woman’s name.”

“Ellen Dempsey. McCullough arrested her a couple of times. Once for prostitution, then again for using mace against someone in a taxi. Dempsey may be part of a case I’m working.”

“What’s it got to do with McCullough?”

“Probably nothing, but I need to ask anyway.”

Hetherington nodded her understanding. “Well, I’ve told you what I know about Jazz . . .”

“You haven’t mentioned that he’s on a course at Tulliallan.”

“Oh, you know about that? Jazz isn’t always very good at following orders.”

“A colleague of mine in Edinburgh’s just the same. Happens to be at Tulliallan too.”

“Which is why you know Jazz is there? It’s not that I was covering up for him, Siobhan. I just didn’t see how it was relevant.”

“Everything’s relevant, Liz,” Siobhan told her. “My feeling — strictly between us” — she waited until Hetherington had nodded her agreement — “is that McCullough may have kept in touch with this Ellen Dempsey character after she left Dundee.”

“Kept in touch in what way?”

“To the extent that he may want to protect her.”

Hetherington was thoughtful for a moment. “I’m not sure I can help. I know he’s married with kids, one of them grown up and studying at university.” She paused. “There’s some sort of separation going on . . .”

“Oh?”

Hetherington winced. “This is going to sound like me having a go at him . . .”

“Not as far as I’m concerned, Liz.” Siobhan waited for her to speak.

Hetherington let out a sigh. “He moved out a couple of months back, according to the rumor mill. Still goes round there . . . I think he moved into a flat only a couple of streets away.”

“He lives in the city?”

Hetherington shook her head. “Just outside, in Broughty Ferry.”

“On the coast?”

Hetherington nodded. “Look, I really don’t want to speak bad of the guy. If you talked to a dozen detectives, you’d hardly find anyone with a —”

“But he has a problem with authority?”

“He just happens to think he knows more than them. Who’s to say he’s wrong?”

“Reminds me of that colleague again,” Siobhan said with a smile.

“Hey, girls, looks like you could do with another drink.” Two men were approaching, pint glasses in hands. They wore jackets, ties and wedding rings.

“Not tonight, fellas,” Hetherington told them. The one who’d spoken gave a shrug.

“Only asking,” he said. Hetherington waved them good-bye.

“Maybe there’s somewhere else you prefer?” Siobhan asked her.

“I really need to be getting home.” She tugged at her watch strap. “If you need to talk to Jazz, just dive in and do it. He won’t bite.”

Siobhan didn’t like to say that she wasn’t sure about that.

They were heading in different directions, so they shook hands outside the pub. The two men followed them out. “Where you lassies off to then?”

“Never mind us, just get on home to your wives.”

The men glowered, then slouched off, muttering curses.

“Thanks for your help, Liz,” Siobhan said.

“I’m not sure I’ve done much.”

“You gave me an excuse to get out of Edinburgh.”

Hetherington nodded, as though she could understand. “Come see us again sometime, DS Clarke.”

“I’ll do that, DS Hetherington.”

She watched the tall, confident figure striding away from her. Hetherington sensed it, threw a wave without bothering to look back.

Siobhan walked downhill to where she’d parked her car. The sky was losing light as she snaked her way back towards the motorway, replacing REM with Boards of Canada. When her mobile rang, she knew instinctively who it would be.

“How was the rest of your day?” she asked.

“I survived,” Rebus told her. “Sorry I couldn’t talk earlier.”

“You were in the same room as them?”

“And sticking as close to Bobby Hogan as I could. You managed to get under Jazz McCullough’s skin — I’m impressed.”

“I should have taken your advice and steered clear.”

“I’m not so sure about that.”

“John . . . are you ready yet to tell me what the hell’s going on?”

“Maybe.”

“I’m not doing anything else for the next hour.”

There was a long silence on the line. “This has got to stay between us,” he told her.

“You know you can trust me.”

“Like I trusted you to stay away from McCullough?”

“That was more in the way of advice,” she said with a grin.

“Well, all right then. If you’re sitting comfortably . . .”

“I’m ready.”

Another silence, and then Rebus’s voice, sounding eerily disembodied. “Once upon a time, in a land far away, there was a king called Strathern. And one day, he called one of his errant knights to him with news of a perilous quest . . .”

Rebus paced his living room as he told Siobhan the story, or as much of it as he felt she needed. He’d clocked off early and come straight home, but now the place felt like a trap. He kept peering from the window, wondering if someone was waiting for him below. The front door was locked, but that wouldn’t keep anyone out. The joiner had replaced the doorjamb, but without adding any extra reinforcement. Another chisel or crowbar would open it as effortlessly as a key. The lights were off throughout the flat, but Rebus wasn’t sure he felt any safer in the darkness.

Siobhan asked him a couple of questions when he was done. She didn’t say anything about whether he’d been right or wrong to take on such a task. She didn’t tell him he was mad for suggesting the drug heist to the trio. Rebus knew then that she was listening to him as a friend as well as a colleague.

“Where are you?” he thought to ask at last. From the sounds, she was still driving. He’d thought she was probably on her way home from St. Leonard’s, but that had been half an hour ago when he’d started his story.

“I’ve just passed Kinross,” she told him. “I’m on my way back from Dundee.”

Rebus knew what Dundee meant. “Digging dirt on Jazz McCullough?”

“Not that there was much to find . . . He’s split from his wife, but that hardly makes him a monster.”

“Split from his wife?” Rebus was thinking back to their first days in Tulliallan. “But he’s always on the phone to her. Made a point of going home when he could.”

“They separated a few months back.”

The happy marriage had been smoke, Rebus realized. “Then where was he going?” he asked.

“I wonder if Ellen Dempsey could tell us.”

“Me too. . .” Rebus grew thoughtful. “What are you doing tonight?”

“Not much. Are you suggesting a stakeout?”

“Maybe a little one, just to see if we can confirm anything.”

“Dempsey lives in North Queensferry. I could be there in ten, fifteen minutes.”

“And McCullough has a house in Broughty Ferry . . .” Rebus went to his dining table, started sifting through the paperwork there. There was a sheet . . . they’d each been given one at the start of the course. Names and ranks of the participants, plus their work and home addresses. He lifted it out. “Got it,” he said.

“Word is, he’s rented a flat a couple of streets away,” Siobhan was saying. “You sure you want to head up there? If his car’s in North Queensferry, it’s a wasted trip . . .”

“Anything’s better than sitting here,” Rebus told her. He didn’t add how much he felt like a target.

They agreed to keep in touch by mobile and he placed one last call to Jean, letting her know he would see her later on in the evening, how much later he couldn’t say.

“If the lights are out, don’t bother ringing the bell,” she told him. “Call me in the morning instead.”

“Will do, Jean.”

He walked quickly from the tenement to his car, starting the engine and reversing out of the parking space. He didn’t know what to expect: some ambush perhaps, or a car following him. But it was midevening quiet, and the Edinburgh streets were such that it was hard to tail someone if they were expecting you. It was all stop-start, traffic lights and junctions. Rebus didn’t think he was being followed. The Wild Bunch had dispersed, supposedly on their way home to families, loved ones, drinking cronies. Allan Ward had complained of the long drive he faced: no fast, easy route to Dumfries. But that could have been just talk. Impossible to tell where any of the trio were. Rebus had imagined Jazz heading for the happy home he’d talked into existence. But there was no happy home. Hard to say what was real anymore. Friday night, and the city was coming out to play: girls in short dresses; boys bouncing as they walked, filled with chemical bravado. Men in suits waving down taxis; music pounding from cruising cars. You worked hard all week, then prayed for oblivion. Having left Edinburgh behind, crossing the Forth Bridge, he looked down towards North Queensferry and gave Siobhan a call.

“No sign of life,” she told him. “I’ve driven past a couple of times . . . no car in the driveway.”

“She might still be at work,” Rebus argued. “Busy night and all that.”

“I called to book a cab. It wasn’t her voice.”

Rebus smiled. “Nice move.”

“Where are you?”

“If you wave, I might see you. I’m just crossing the bridge.”

“Let me know when you get there.”

Rebus ended the call, clearing his mind as he drove.

Broughty Ferry was on the coast just east of Dundee itself. It liked to think of itself as genteel and independent, like someone with enough money put aside for a comfortable retirement. He stopped to ask a local for directions, and soon found himself on Jazz McCullough’s street, though mindful that McCullough himself could be in the vicinity. There were plenty of cars parked curbside and in driveways, but no sign of McCullough’s Volvo sedan. Rebus passed his house. It was detached but unostentatious. Maybe four bedrooms, leaded windows in the lounge. Light was pouring through them. There was a driveway but no garage. The car on view was a Honda Accord, probably the wife’s. Rebus turned his Saab round at a neighboring cul-de-sac and managed to park just close enough to the house to keep any comings and goings visible. He took a sheet of paper from his pocket and unfolded it: the list from Tulliallan. Jazz’s phone number was printed next to his address. Rebus placed the call. A young male voice picked up: the fourteen-year-old son.

“Is your dad in?” Rebus asked cheerily.

“No . . .” The word stretched out longer than necessary as the boy tried to decide what else to tell the caller.

“I’ve got the right number for Jazz?”

“He’s not here,” the boy said.

“I’m a friend of his from work,” Rebus explained.

The boy relaxed a little. “I can give you another number if you’ve got a pen.”

“That’d be great.”

The number was recited from an address book or piece of notepaper. Rebus jotted it down. “That’s a great help, thanks.”

“No problem.” The boy put the phone down just as Rebus could hear the faint voice of a woman asking who was calling. He looked at the number he’d just been given. It was Jazz’s mobile. No point trying that: it wouldn’t help pinpoint a location. Rebus settled his neck against the headrest, then called Siobhan.

“I’m here,” he told her. “Any action your end?”

“Maybe they’re down the pub.”

“I wish I was with them.”

“Me too. I had a gin a couple of hours ago and it’s given me a thumping head.”

“For which the only cure is more alcohol,” Rebus agreed.

“What the hell are we doing, John?”

“I thought we were on surveillance.”

“But for whose benefit?”

“Our own.”

She sighed. “I suppose you’re right . . .”

“Don’t feel duty-bound to stick around.” Rebus watched a sports car turn into the street. Its brake lights glowed as it passed the house, but it kept going, signaling to turn into the road at the end. “What car does Dempsey drive?” Rebus asked, starting his ignition.

“Latest-model red MG.”

“One just drove past me.” He made the same turn the MG just had, and saw it round another corner. Rebus kept up his commentary. “Slowed down as if the driver wanted a quick recon of McCullough’s family pile.”

“And now?”

Rebus made to turn into another street, but changed his mind when he saw the MG reverse into a tight parking spot. A man was standing on the pavement, looking to left and right.

Jazz McCullough.

With better lighting, he might have spotted Rebus, but Rebus had the feeling it was McCullough’s wife he was watching for. A woman got out of the car, and he led her briskly indoors.

“Result,” Rebus told Siobhan. “She’s just gone into McCullough’s flat.” He described the woman he’d seen.

“That’s her all right,” Siobhan confirmed. “What now?”

“I think we’ve got as much as we can expect. Jazz McCullough’s playing away from home with Ellen Dempsey.”

“That’s why he was so keen to keep tabs on the Marber case? He wanted to check we weren’t hassling her?”

“I suppose so . . .”

“But why?” Siobhan persisted. “What was it they thought we’d find?”

“I don’t know,” Rebus admitted. He didn’t see what else he could say.

“You’re giving up?” Siobhan’s voice asked.

“I just think it can wait till Monday,” he told her. “It doesn’t make me a bad person.”

“No, of course not . . .”

“Look, Siobhan, it’s something you should take to Gill Templer. Whether she decides to act on it — or if there’s anything for her to act on — is down to Gill herself.”

“She thinks the case is closed.”

“Maybe she’s right.”

“What if she’s wrong?”

“Jesus, Siobhan, what are you saying here? You take Dempsey and McCullough for some latter-day Bonnie and Clyde? You think they killed Edward Marber?”

“Of course not,” she answered, trying for the sound of a dismissive laugh.

“Well, then,” Rebus told her.

She went on to say he was right. She’d sleep on it, cogitate over the weekend, maybe put it into some kind of binary . . .

“Some kind of what?”

“Never mind.”

They ended the call, but Rebus didn’t move the car, not quite yet. Dempsey and McCullough as Bonnie and Clyde . . . It had been said in jest, but now Rebus was starting to wonder, not about Bonnie and Clyde as such, but about the relationship between McCullough and Ellen Dempsey, and how it might tie in to something much bigger than even Siobhan could have imagined.

“Fuck it,” he said, finally unable to sort out the jumble of strands in his head. Then he turned the car around and headed south.

Jean’s lights were still on.

When she opened the door he was standing there with a fish supper and a bottle of red wine.

“Enough for two,” he told her as she stood back to let him in.

“I’m naturally flattered. First dinner at Number One, now this . . .”

He kissed her forehead. She didn’t resist. “Got any plans for the weekend?” he asked.

“Nothing I can’t change if I feel like it.”

“I just thought we might spend some time together. There’s a lot about you I need to get to know.”

“Such as?”

“Such as . . . for future reference, do you prefer perfume, bouquets or fish suppers with wine?”

“That’s a tough one,” she admitted, closing the door behind them.